


Poems for Me

by UnknownFan



Category: Original Work
Genre: Bad Poetry, Original work - Freeform, Poetry, References to Depression, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2020-08-24
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:27:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26077945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UnknownFan/pseuds/UnknownFan
Summary: Small tid-bits i’ve made over the years that I never cleaned up enough to let anyone see.  varying grammar and suicidal ideation.posting just to show other’s stewing in the “my brain is a bad place” category that being human sucks sometimes, you aren’t alone. however, if you know such works only bring you further into a spiral, please do not read.:/my writing skills also aren’t the best.





	1. Creatures of Habit (myself)

Frustration is an interesting feeling.  
A strange pressure and nonexistent heat at the front of my brain,  
Wanting to reach equilibrium by shouting  
Letting hot air go by in the faint mirage of unintelligible words  
dissipating into cool night air.

Confusion is a similar feeling.  
Simmering heat—but instead of finding a middle point,  
I shut my eyes and try to understand why  
I’m not finding what I do want to understand.

Just a creature used to the ease of knowing.

These sludges of chemicals my brain created  
Stem from a portion of me that is lacking:  
Former from something else,  
The latter from something  
I don’t want to admit that it is entirely my fault.

Yet in each I have a need  
To find what I’m lacking to see.  
With the belief  
That it simply is that easy.

It’s the chemistry of anger.  
The relationship between me,  
And the observable property  
Of small, wet droplets littering dull carpeting.

A creature unused to the effort of its failings.

Confusion is first and frustration is second.  
Anger rising, and if not dissipated it seems to swell.  
And at the point of collision,  
The reaction reaching its climax,  
hot anger connects with cold night air.

Even after it all plays out: recordable and repeatable—  
Just a creature finding that it needs to learn how to know again.


	2. Fear for Missing

It’s a strange idea to wonder who or what  
you will become in any amount of time  
You have ideas; but truly do any plans come to fruition?  
People are constantly learning and changing  
even if that change is minute and not all-encompassing 

Each memory you have of yourself is a different person:  
Same DNA, different cells, equal strangers.  
It can be a comforting thought, some times—  
That you’ll never be the you that you are now,  
Even if everything else stays the same (but only sometimes).

When people ask me what I want to do  
For the rest of my life  
I can’t help but think that such a question  
Is unbearably unfair.

How can I know what the me that I’ll become  
Wants to do? How am I supposed to focus  
Both on the me now, and the guessing  
Of who I’ll eventually have to be. 

I never truly have an answer when  
The talk of careers rears its head.  
Truthfully, I haven’t any want to think of such a topic;  
The end of high school seems  
As close as my own endgame—goal—  
Than any other option seems to be. 

Past focusing on preparing for an unknown future  
I have nothing to show for the action I’ve been  
Rehearsing for my entire life.  
(Even if that act, itself, is life)  
I have nothing but admiration for those  
Who seem to know who they are.

Perhaps I’m just boring.  
I have nothing in my head after everything:  
Tests studying books job thoughts and thoughts.  
Nothing to truly say I’m proud of accomplishing—  
Not even a worthy goal to share at family gatherings.


	3. Self-Imposed

It all seems like a painting with colors  
that don’t compliment each other.  
Composition and lines almost work,  
But fall just short of any wow-factor.

You can pick out a vocabulary word  
and recite its meaning with perfect accuracy  
But any sentence constructed with it  
feels stilted and lacking.

It’s the almost there quality  
Quickly followed by nothing.  
Nothing to add, nothing to improve,  
No idea of what to do.

“ _Book smart,_ ” they say,  
“ _but lacking any common sense_ “  
An angry sense of thought-to-be  
Maliciously deserved inadequacy 

Deserving in the sense  
That you understand others don’t look as good  
On paper reports and digital scores  
But you, oh, you do don’t you?

But just for you  
This small piece is not good enough  
And damn, just suck it up.  
It’s not even your place to get angry. 

But somehow, i don’t want it to be mine either


End file.
